Gemotions

The telephone receiver slipped from Daniel’s numb fingers, clattering onto the counter. "Thank you for your submission," the saccharine voice on the other end had said. *Thank you, but no thank you.* The implication dripped with a patronizing dismissal. He stared at the phone.

The kitchen, usually a place of comfort, suddenly felt cold and alien. The air tasted stale, metallic. He needed to *do* something. He grabbed a knife from the block, not sure what he intended to cut, but feeling compelled to hold the steel.

He considered smashing the ceramic mug on the counter, the one he had gotten from his grandmother. Then he stopped. The rage inside him, raw and unformed, clawed at the walls of his chest. He slammed the knife into the countertop, the wood splintering.